Chapter Text
It was always the smallest things in life that meant the most: snacks, naps, extra sleep, morning sun, the perfect temperature. Yes, those flashes of good in a universe of questionable intentions made life worth living. Virgil would argue that the small things kept one sane. If you couldn’t focus on the good fish in a sea of dark waters, you would drown, and as tempting as that could be, Virgil wasn’t prepared to go down at the tender age of fifteen without a fight.
What else could he do?
The guards-- some small, feathered primates-- tossed a bar of presumably nutritious sludge in his cage. As per usual, it didn’t come without some form of humiliation and taunting at the expense of the “big bad” human, but it came all the same. As per usual, the “food” tasted neither good nor bad. It was everything necessary to sustain a human, and not much besides.
At this point, food in hand and complete silence, it was easy for Virgil to pretend that he had some semblance of “good” in his little cage. The alternative was… unsavory. Of course, the side of him that still had concerns with the outside world would never let him forget what shortly followed snacks.
An hour later, different guards returned. These were a different species-- no feathers to pluck and too big to throw. No, these were proper guards. These posed an actual threat in numbers, although Virgil knew from prior experimentation that he could reliably take down two at a time. However, those prior experiments worked both ways in learning, and they figured out their current setup after the first few times: six guards total: Two behind, one on each flank, one in front (in case he darted), and one in direct contact with him at all times.
Weapons out, they dragged Virgil, who went without resistance, into the hallway, immediately slinging restraints, a blindfold, and muzzle (no one wants human diseases) on him. The point of contact kept one hand wrapped around his tranq collar as they jerked him down the familiar path to the arena.
They stopped, the point of contact and restraints leaving as rapidly as the initial handling.
“Blindfold off,” someone barked in Common. Metal clanged shut on metal somewhere behind Virgil.
He’d learnt that particular phrase from prior experiences too… not that he knew much else.
Virgil obeyed, wearily examining the familiar surroundings. Yeah, try to find the good in this. The box ascended. As traces of fresh, if not a bit bloody air filtered in, so did the usual screams and jeers. He could taste the excitement and blood lust in the air, to say nothing of the reek of money. This whole situation was nothing new, yet it always found a way to get more miserable every time.
Who will it be today, he thought, stretching in the elevator. Perhaps a bear-like Rova or armored Whoff. If nothing else, he hoped it would be a Bickani-- they didn’t have pain receptors. Unwelcome memories came with the crowd’s excitement, and with them the telltale hyperventilating of a panic attack.
There would be more death.
Virgil could do nothing about it except extend his ledger.
Well, he could also die, but if a poor fight was put up, they’d both die anyways.
“Terrans and Marinos, Arbor-folk and Subterrestrians, thank you for joining us for this year’s special event: the Human Massacre.”
Wait, Virgil didn’t understand Common in general, but he knew “human” and “massacre,” and they were not usually said like that. His breath quickened.
Perhaps some war-machine alien bigger and badder than a human would have the joy of pummeling him into the salted ground then.
“You probably deserve it,” his mind sniped. “How many others have you beat in the past year.”
Virgil almost answered his inner thoughts, knowing the answer was “far too many," then promptly ignored them in favor of trying to slow his heart, which was going at illegal speeds. He chuckled, depressed. He could cry later. There would always be time to panic.
The crowd cheered again.
For now, he needed to focus-- life or death.
The elevator had stopped a long time ago. The audience had climaxed its anticipation as the announcer finished monologuing. The doors opened.
Virgil leapt out, running counter clockwise at a staggering gallop. His reflective, white, thin tracksuit always gave him the disadvantage of being easy to spot. The brutal footsteps kicked up storms of sand-- irritating for Virgil, blinding for everyone else. Same as his first match, the lights were still blaring, and the gravity was too light. Despite the sand storm, his feet couldn’t feel heavy enough no matter how hard he stepped.
“Where is he?” Virgil dropped to the ground, silent and predatory. Everyone expected a tall human.
There was no towering beast, no coiled serpent or armored raptor. Was it underground? Could it be invisible? That wasn’t a possibility, to the extent of Virgil’s knowledge, so maybe camouflage? He scanned the ground.
“Oh,” he choked.
Looks could be deceiving, but this was laughable at best. It was cowering-- shaking, even. This scrawny chicken-thing looked more like one of the parrots specially-bred for pet shows back on Earth. It’s blindingly iridescent feathers were just… obviously not built for combat. They weren’t sharp or armored, its talons were too long for combat, probably more geared towards climbing. Who made this decision?
Virgil was entirely for giving respect where respect was due, but in terms of combat prowess, this one acted more like Virgil did during his first match. Something in his stomach lurched.
The bird had pressed itself against the unyielding metal gate, seemingly unaware of the opponent behind it.
The audience waited with bated breath.
“Hey.” Virgil approached it, on guard, but relatively nonthreatening.
It turned, then screamed a horrifying trill.
Virgil could hear it whisper under its breath in fragmented Common. “Human-- food-- fight-- die.” Its feathers flared.
He couldn’t blame it, granted that humans were the intergalactic boogeyman, but this was hard enough without a guilt trip. His previous opponents were battle-hardened, brutish species. They knew no Common nor native language and would have killed Virgil given a chance. The bird attempting to scale the smooth glass walls? Virgil couldn’t deal with that. It spoke. It was harmless. He wrung his hands. Virgil didn’t kill, and he only injured in self defense. The past year had undoubtedly loosened his morals, but the basic human desire for peace? Virgil doubted anyone could wring that out of him.
“No fight,” Virgil called. “No fight; Human good.”
The bird glared at him, probably suspiciously, and backed away some more. It flapped pitifully, and Virgil could see where its flight feathers had been plucked-- no wonder it was so terrified.
“I-” Virgil hadn’t realized how quiet the audience had grown. He wrung his hands, sure everyone could hear him. “You no fight, I no fight, yes?”
Closing the distance between them minutely, the bird’s head lifted in the universal sign of acceptance, although it still looked ready to run or die-- whichever came first.
Virgil reciprocated. He jerked-- the bird jumped back-- the air was different, the audience was too quiet. Something pricked his neck.
“Oh, the collar,” was the last thing Virgil thought before hitting the dirt.